


It isn't in my blood

by Nagiru



Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Hanahaki AU, Hanahaki Disease, However I took liberty and ignored the existence of the Fullbringer Arc, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-Winter War (Bleach), Self-Esteem Issues, Slash, angst-fest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-09-13 05:19:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16886370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nagiru/pseuds/Nagiru
Summary: A garden blooms its way to death; Ichigo decides it's not worth it to search for help, though, because he isokay.





	It isn't in my blood

**Author's Note:**

> Here I am, once again. I believe I am on an UraIchi mood. Hm...
> 
> So! This story was inspired on my computer wallpaper (link, to those interested: https://static.zerochan.net/BLEACH.full.1214064.jpg); one day I just turned my computer on, looked at it, and was like, "I never wrote a hanahaki AU!"  
> At first, I didn't know whether Ichigo or Kisuke would have hanahaki. Then, I started writing, wrote the first paragraph, and Ichigo just offered himself. So, Ichigo it was. And I wanted sakura blossoms, and it fits spring so well, and I thought, "spring comes after Winter, so, post-Winter War", and then my story truly began. A post-Winter War AU where the Fullbringers didn't exist (because I don't like them).  
> I intended for it to be a short thing. 2k words, at most. Then, it began to grow, and I thought, "wow, I'll write a 5k words story!" And then I got to the 9k, and decided if I was there, I was going to have a 10k story. (And proceeded to almost make it to the 11k. Damn, did this story run out of my hands.)
> 
> Anyway. As I said, this is my first hanahaki au. (By this point, it's already my 5th UraIchi, even though I haven't _finished_ the 4th one) I hate sad endings, though, so, despite the fact that I almost wrote one just to spite my friend (oh, friendship. It's such a beautiful thing), I went with my preference, and wrote a Happy Ending. After much, _much_ angst.
> 
> For those who ignored the tags, please, **READ THEM!!** Ichigo has depression and PTSD in this story (even though it is never diagnosed or anything), and he's been struggling with it all on his own for most of it. If you're triggered by either, please, be aware of it, and don't read it. I haven't really separated a part for it; it's spread all over the story, instead.
> 
> For those interested, I have assembled somewhat of a playlist while writing this story. I wrote at least half of it while listening to these songs, and I decided that most of them had something that echoed with this story, one way or another. They are:  
> In My Blood (Shawn Mendes), What About Us (P!nk), Zombie (The Cranberries), Say Something (A Great Big World), War of Hearts (Ruelle), 'Til it Happens to You (Lady Gaga), A Thousand Years (Christina Perri), Fix You (Coldplay), idontwannabeyouanymore (Billie Eilish).  
> In My Blood was even, as you may have imagined, used to name it, in the end.
> 
> So, now that all of that is outta the way... **disclaimer?** I still don't own Bleach or its characters, they are all Tite Kubo's. I don't own the hanahaki disease idea, either, and have no idea from where it came from (besides a vague understanding it arose from a Korean videoclipe?).  
> Well. Now... hope you enjoy this little monster of a story!  
> (and if you prefer to read chronologically, I have put it down in the end notes, but I have not actually numbered each session, so it's easier to just read it as it is, sorry)

The first petal was lost in the midst of several others brought in by the wind. The coughs went unnoticed, a wave of flu going through town.

It was spring, the war had just ended, and everything was fine.

(Ichigo was dead inside, nothing would ever feel right again, and what was _fine_?)

Then, things kept getting worse, instead of better, and Ichigo realized he didn’t have the flu, after all.

**.**

“Onii-chan?” Yuzu called, and Ichigo knew she was worried, but he just _couldn’t_ reply. Not right then. The best he could do, instead, was clamp a hand over his mouth, and swallow down the sounds of his coughs while she was standing out the door. “Ichi-nii, you there?”

He never thought he’d think this, but, right now, all he could think was, _please, please go away, Yuzu_.

(He felt so goddamn _guilty_ for it, but he also felt as if there was something stuck in his throat, and damn if he _didn’t_ )

It took forever, but, after a couple more knocks on the door, and a heartfelt sigh, Yuzu finally retreated, a quiet, “Guess he’s out again,” following her.

He really should try to make it up to her later.

Right now, however, he was just utterly relieved he could double over the bucket he’d smuggled into his room once again, hacking and coughing and nearly vomiting as whole blossoms forced their way out his lungs, an empty burn left behind in their path.

Such beautiful flowers, cherry blossoms.

So incredibly _bloody_ , as well. Hah. Guess it’s only fitting: an ephemeral, bloody life. It described Ichigo’s experiences just perfectly; just a teenager, and already a war hero. He just had his first crush, and he was already dying.

Just 16, and already emptier than he’d ever thought possible, with more nightmares than he’d ever wanted to imagine. Just 16, and he already knew he’d die. Ichigo didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

In doubt, cough more flowers, he’d discovered.

“Fuck you,” he muttered to the mess of angry-red sakura blossoms lying on the bottom of the bucket. Shit, he’d have to wash it up again soon, before it started stinking… “Stupid _getaboshi_ ,” he sighed, scrubbing away at his chin and mouth with his fist, feeling blood against his skin.

He should have just taken the surgery while he could, he knew.

But then, Ichigo had never been good in giving up, had he?

**.**

Ichigo first realized things weren’t that great when, weeks after he woke up sightless for the first time in his life, he had a coughing episode.

Ever since he’d lost his powers, he’d always felt so _empty_ , so separate from his body, it was the first time he’d actually been _bothered_ by something physical ever since he’d used Mugetsu. Ichigo was almost glad for it, too, thinking he had a flu.

(That was _normal_ , right? Human-normal?)

Until one day, he finally coughed out something onto his hands, and he was left staring at small, pink petals.

“Shit.” He stated blankly.

He knew this. He knew these symptoms — and there were _more_ , he could tell now that he was _actually looking_ for it. He’d grown up in a clinic, he knew just about everything there was to know about basic medicine.

_Hanahaki_? It was so _unique_ it was famous.

He shook his head, trying to focus on the facts, instead of conjectures:

  1. People who were afflicted grew gardens in their lungs, which could eventually grow to cover their chest and crush their hearts.
  2. _Hanahaki_ only affected those who had an unrequited affection for someone else, and not _all_ of those with unrequited love.
  3. _Hanahaki_ had more than one possible outcome: one could outgrow their feeling, thus freeing themselves from the flowers; the feeling could come to be requited, instead of unrequited, thus ending the suffering of the garden growth; one could take a surgery, which would take away the garden and any feeling attached to it; or one could let the feelings fester, eventually dying from it.



**And, more importantly:**

  1. Despite it being more or less common for teenagers to have a slight case of _hanahaki_ , Ichigo had never had it.



“It’s… it’s okay. It’s normal,” he grumbled to himself, still staring at the pink petals. “It’s just puberty. Of course I’d have gotten _hanahaki_ at some point. It’s _expected_. It’s almost like getting pimples or growing facial hair. Just part of growing up. It will _pass_.”

Even as he said it, however, Ichigo knew it was a lie. It was normal, of course; just, _Ichigo_ wasn’t normal. This… this _wouldn’t_ pass.

Not naturally. Because nothing in Ichigo’s life ever occurred _naturally_. This past year just proved that.

**.**

It was nearing 18 months since Ichigo sacrificed his powers for the sake of the world, and Ichigo despaired he would die without ever seeing his friends again.

Which was bullshit, because why was he sad about people who abandoned him at the bat of an eye? If they were _truly_ his friends, they’d come here _to him_. He shouldn’t feel guilty about not saying goodbye to them.

(Yet, with every day he passed without seeing Renji’s blood-red spikes or hearing Rukia’s bossy explanations, he felt his heart clench harder inside his chest. And it wasn’t just because of the roots enveloping it.)

It was 18 months, and Ichigo was 16 nearing 17, and he was still coughing sakura blossoms.

It felt fitting.

**.**

He’d been coughing pink petals for almost a month when he finally gathered enough courage to look up its meaning.

(He refused to think about how it had been a month, and he was _still coughing flowers._ Flowers that only just grew with each passing day, even, and he refused to think about that, too.)

He supposed he should be thankful his flower was such an easily recognizable one. He’d known what it was since he first glanced at the petals in his hand — Aizen’s fall had occurred in just the right timing for Ichigo to be _surrounded_ by them, after all.

_Sakura_ petals. The cherry blossom. Ichigo _really_ couldn’t do more Japanese than that. A proof of Ichigo’s roots as _human_ , he supposed; an inheritance from his mother, maybe.

(He also refused to think about how he inherited _death_ from her. How he’d brought her death, and now she brought it to him, wrapped in a beautiful package. This family was certainly filled with morbid gifts.)

“Kindness. Gentleness.” He started reading, a website on _hana kotoba_ , the language of flowers, open on his phone. He scoffed. “Doesn’t seem to _suit me_ , does it…”

Then. Then he found it. The reason. He let out an unconscious “oh,” breath stolen from his chest.

(He took a moment to cough and hack in more breath. Apparently, symbolism was also a trigger. Good to know.)

_Transience of life_ , one read. “ _The sakura reminds viewers that life is short and beautiful”_ , read another. Sakura, “ _the most commonly used symbol of mortality in all types of art._ ”

Death. Rebirth.

New life.

Ichigo hated that he felt connected to his own sign of on-coming death.

**.**

Ichigo clenched his hands into fists underneath his desk, counting his breath behind clenched teeth.

_In just a minute,_ he told himself silently, staring blankly at the vague direction of the teacher even as he swallowed around a new coughing fit. _In just a minute, I can leave._

His throat ached from the effort not to cough, his lungs feeling much too heavy and full, and there was an _itch_ at the back of his tongue, like something tickling him from the inside. It was all so _bothersome_ , so annoying, so goddamn _awful_. Ichigo just wanted to…

To get up and leave, he realized belatedly as he moved without thinking.

“I’m going home,” he announced to the teacher when she looked at him surprised, his bag already on his back and feet leading him out. “I don’t feel too good.”

That had always been an excuse, so, _of course_ , she rolled her eyes.

But. She also smiled, rueful and exasperated, and shook her head, and Ichigo realized that Chad and the others were gone.

“The assignment is for tomorrow!” she reminded him as he pulled the door open more sharply than he’d first intended.

Of course she thought he was just going to meet his friends. To her, they _were_ still friends, after all.

Fucking hell.

As soon as he was outside the classroom, he found himself speed walking to the nearest bathroom, hands clenched inside his pockets so he wouldn’t punch anything. Or throw up in the middle of the hallway — that also sounded like a valid option, right now.

He barely had enough control to get into a cabin and lock it behind himself before he was doubling over, sweet taste of sickness and flowers covering his mouth as he hacked and heaved, body shaking from the force of it.

When he finally managed to stop, throat feeling raw and sore, and lungs burning from the exertion, he was left staring at clumps of petals flecked with just the barest hint of blood from the brutality of his fit.

It made no sense; he was already months in. By this point, he should have overflowing lungs. He should be coughing blood every time he coughed any petal, and his flowers should already be formed. Yet… yet, it didn’t.

“Is this another Shinigami thing?” he wondered quietly, still staring at the soft pink of the petals against the stark white of the toilet. “Or maybe a Hollow thing.”

Maybe he should ask… someone. But, really, who? The best people to ask would be… Well. It didn’t matter, since they were _unavailable_.

He got up, still shaking just the slightest bit from the latest fit, and flushed the petals down the toilet.

It didn’t matter, anyway. He was still alive and kicking, and, most of the days, he was still _fine_.

**.**

Karin had been acting strangely, lately.

Which, of course, hypocrisy and shit. But, he was the oldest brother. It was his _duty_ to care for his sisters. If that meant following them when they did _not_ wish him to, or hiding an illness that put him closer and closer to death, then, well. Who’d tell on him?

… But, Karin _was_ acting strangely. And Ichigo might be failing on pretty much… every other duty, lately, but he’d die before he let any harm befall his sisters.

( _Literally_ , he thought fondly, remembering a sword through his gut and being ready to sacrifice himself to keep them alive.)

( _Literally_ , he thought bitterly, staring at pink petals flecked with saliva before crushing them in his fists.)

Karin might be older, now, but she was still Ichigo’s little sis, and he always knew how to care for the both of them. Yuzu was easy; he just offered her a shoulder, and she was always happy to tell him things, always happy to “talk it out”. Karin… Karin was too much like him.

Which explained why he was following her after her classes, hands deep into his pockets, and trying not to cough as they wandered deeper into town.

“What the…” he murmured with a frown. He knew these streets. Knew these back alleys, and twists, and dilapidated walls. He _knew_ this part of town. He’d spent a week here, trying (and failing) not to die. He’d spent weeks here, before the war _actually_ came, discussing plans and strategies and learning everything he could so he’d not die.

He knew these streets — and there wasn’t much in this part of town but Urahara’s shop.

Which meant, of course, he should start falling back unless he wanted to be seen, shitshit _shit_.

He ducked into an alley, breath coming short and ragged as he curled inwards, a hand shoved into his mouth so he wouldn’t be overheard as he coughed as quietly as he could, trying to force the petals out of his throat.

Karin was visiting Urahara Kisuke’s shop for _Shinigamis_.

_Why?_

(He rejected the smart of jealousy that rose at the thought. He also rejected the images that popped into his head; images of grey eyes, and cutting smirks, and _getaboshi_ , stupid, ridiculous getaboshi.)

(More importantly, he rejected the clench of his heart, and the sudden spike of petals in his throat, and the newest fit of coughing those thoughts brought. It was completely unrelated, after all.)

**.**

18 months since the Winter War. 18 months since Ichigo woke up missing half his soul and unable to see half his world. 18 months since Ichigo last heard from Renji, Rukia, the Vizards, or any of his other friends from Soul Society. 18 months since Chad, Inoue and Ishida last _talked_ , actually talked, to him.

17 months since Ichigo spewed his first petal of sakura. 17 months since he realized he might have survived the war, but he would not survive his _emotions_. 17 months since he’d last looked at his sisters and not felt guilty. 17 months since he’d realized with a start that he _liked getaboshi._

… 3 months since he’d moved past the point of surgery.

Ichigo decided it was time.

**.**

He knew the basics of _hanahaki_ , of course. But, after a month of living with flowers in his body, Ichigo realized he should actually research it, and not just rely on his memory.

So, a month and a half after he saw that first petal on his hand, Ichigo hid away in the library, and actually _read_. Everything he could find, everything he could think of that _might_ be of importance, Ichigo took and read.

It took him a whole day, and an excuse of having a class assignment, but, eventually, Ichigo managed it.

And news were, predictably, awful.

Ichigo sighed, massaging at his temples even as he tossed the latest book away.

“The infection grows as the feeling grows,” he said to himself, words flashing before his eyes from the books he’d read. “ _Hanahaki_ can be acquired from a simple crush, but the feeling from a crush- _hanahaki_ is very different to the feeling of a love- _hanahaki_. It can even be considered different levels of the same disease; a simple allergy, or a deadly cancer.”

A deadly cancer.

“While crush- _hanahaki_ may be considered a rite of passage between teenagers, love- _hanahaki_ is so rare it can be considered an entirely different disease”

Ichigo chuckled hollowly, closing his eyes; they’d said it was instinctual, knowing if it was a crush- or a love- _hanahaki_ , and Ichigo realized it really was.

And, unfortunately, he had never been a normal teenager, whether he was 12 or 16.

Which meant, he had… _maybe_ , a year left (if he was lucky) to live. _Maybe_ a couple months before the garden would grow into his chest, and the surgery wouldn’t be an option anymore.

Maybe it was time for Ichigo to give up, at long last.

Somehow, however, he knew he wouldn’t.

**.**

Knowing Karin was now the Kurosaki with the strongest _reiatsu_ (and he pointedly did not think of their father. He’d been so _decided_ to live as human, he could remain a human), Ichigo was honestly worried when he realized that Karin _kept going to Urahara._

Then, one day he caught her coming back home with a bag full of Urahara’s inventions, and it was too much.

Of course, seeing how there was a constant pressure on his lungs and a scratch at his throat, he started with Karin, and did not think of the alternative.

Except. “So,” he started, uneasily. “What have you been up to? Doing well in school? You’ve been coming home late… is it soccer practice? You haven’t asked me to go watch you in a while.”

… Fuck, that felt awkward even to his own ears; he grimaced lightly, hiding it beneath a familiar scowl.

“Hey, bro,” she greeted back with a lopsided grin and a lilt of sarcasm to her voice. “I’m good too, thanks.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled, chastised. He didn’t correct her on her _‘too’_ , though. “So?”

She sighed. “Yeah, yeah. Well. I mean. You were busy, recently, so…”

What a bunch of non-answers. Karin was clearly spending _way_ too much time with Urahara.

(He ignored the sharp throb at his chest)

“Eh. If you tell me when, I’ll be there, next time,” he promised, smiling at her, and he meant it. He’d be there to watch her every single practice, if she let him.

He’d be there at every moment he had left with his sisters, if they’d let him.

“Sure. Wanna come on Friday?”

And that was that.

So — Karin was a no-go. And, since Karin seemed intent on keeping it a secret, he doubted Yuzu would know about it.

Which meant… well. At least he’d gotten really good at swallowing down his fits, now.

**.**

Some days, Ichigo still felt disconnected from his body. Some days he’d wake up and there would be an ache in his chest, and he’d have voices ringing in his ears that he knew he would never be able to hear again.

Some days, he woke up gasping, and coughing, and there was blood in his hands — and then he blinked, and he was at home, on his bed, and the only thing on his hands were pink petals.

Some days, Ichigo woke with a scream choked in his throat, and he gasped for breath as he tried not to vomit all over himself, feeling like there was a hole in his chest, and his skin was _too cold_ , and there was a pressure in his lungs that never went away, anymore.

Some days, Ichigo woke up feeling too old for his 16 years, and he felt like it would have been kinder to have died in the War.

**.**

The first time Ichigo let himself be honest, he was sitting by the river, staring at the point where he’d lost his mother.

“I’m going to die, Mom,” he whispered to the wind. “I lived through a war, and I’m going to die, anyway.”

He looked around, paranoid. This river wasn’t too popular with his friends and family, but still…

Seeing no one he knew, and deciding he was away enough from any stranger, as well, he turned his eyes back to the calm waters again.

“I’m dying, and I’m _afraid_.” There, it was out. Thus, it was _true_. “I’m so damn afraid. I survived the War by believing it was necessary, believing it was to protect Yuzu and Karin, to make you proud… but now… now I’m just…”

He felt an itch at the back of his throat, and, for the first time in a long time, he didn’t fight it.

The sakura blossoms were so very pretty, so _dainty_ and charming. He could understand why some people believed them to be representation of beauty and spirituality. Of life and death.

He smiled at the small flowers, crushing one carefully between his fingers while he dropped the others in the water, watching them float away. “I’m just _dying_. It’s not for anyone’s sake but my own.” He admitted. “I fell in love, and it won’t ever be mutual, and I should have just taken the surgery while there was still time, but.” Grey eyes, sharp and concerned at the same time. A low laugh, snarky remarks. Gentle hands that could kill and protect with the same ease as their owner breathed. “But I don’t want to forget.”

And because, sometimes, he was selfish. Sometimes, he looked at Yuzu and Karin and thought, _“you’ll have people to look after you, after I’m gone”_ , and didn’t feel as guilty. Because sometimes he looked at all that his sisters had, and thought, _“you’re happy. You’ll be happier without me.”_

Because sometimes he woke up, and the emptiness inside him was too much.

“And I don’t know if I want to live, anymore.” He whispered at last.

**.**

Ichigo stared at the twins with fondness, watching as they bickered about breakfast and school as they moved around the kitchen, pots clanking and glasses clinking as they washed the day’s dishes. They were so damn _precious_. Ichigo loved them so much it hurt.

Especially since even his love for them wasn’t enough for him to give up his sickening love that corroded him from the inside.

“You’ve been acting so weird, Ichi-nii.”

Ichigo blinked, looking up to see Karin staring at him with a frown and her hands on her hips, looking so _mature_ , and so much like his memories of their mother he was left breathless for a moment — and, for the first time in months, it had nothing to do with the flowers growing in his lungs.

“Oh, hey,” he grinned at hear, clearing his throat from emotions and an oncoming cough. “What do you mean, ‘weird’? I’m normal! Completely fine!” he added, scowling at her, but it felt empty, fake even as he did the motions to form the expression.

Clearly, Karin wasn’t convinced, humming dubiously back at him. “Uh-huh. That’s why you’ve been hovering so much,” she drawled with an eye roll.

So much like him.

He smiled, chest burning and lungs too full, and yelped loudly in response. “I’ve not!”

(Perhaps their father had the right idea, after all. Pretending to be an idiot _was_ a very easy way to save yourself several pointed questions you did not want to answer.)

As expected, Yuzu laughed from near the stove where she was storing the leftover dinner in pots, aiming a sweet smile at him from over her shoulder. “You really have, Onii-chan, sorry to say.”

He yelped again, undignified and incensed. “I’ve just been _spending time_ with you two! Can’t a guy want to spend some time with his sisters?”

Karin snorted, turning back to go help Yuzu once again, finally convinced it wasn’t anything too important.

Still, she wouldn’t be his sister if she hadn’t taken the opportunity to snark at him. “Not if they’re teenagers, they don’t.”

_Brats_ , he thought fondly, shaking his head.

Huffing, he rolled his eyes at their backs. “You’ll see, when I’m old and away, you’ll be missing me like crazy!”

And. Shit. That hit too close to home.

He clenched his jaw shut, swallowing convulsively around the rising petals, even as Karin laughed and Yuzu shook her head.

_He shouldn’t have_ , he realized. Later, they’d look at this conversation, and instead of thinking of how they spend some good time together, they’d feel so _guilty_. It’d kill them.

Ichigo _shouldn’t have._

(Later, locked in his room, he stared at pink petals splattered with blood, sweetness cloying his senses and lungs burning from the force of his latest fit, and thought, _“A job. I should leave them something.”_ And he did not feel guilty that he’d be leaving them. Not anymore.)

**.**

A “Kurosaki-san,” greeted him before he was ready, and Ichigo had to duck his head to hide the petals he coughed out into his fist.

“Are you okay?” Urahara continued, sandals clicking loudly between them as he approached Ichigo.

An ache grew in his chest, there was a constant itch in his throat, and he _burned_ , flowers draining him of life to survive. “Yes.”

Urahara hummed, and Ichigo surreptitiously cleaned his face before raising his head. “Just a flu,” he added, clenching the coughed petals in his fist and hiding them in his pocket as discreetly as he could, nerves haywire from Urahara’s piercing stare.

“So,” Urahara grinned at him, and his eyes were so _silver_ with consideration even as he snapped his fan open. Ichigo hated him. Ichigo hated his eyes, his smirk, his voice, his… “What brings you to my charming abode? Had a sudden craving for sweets, Kurosaki-san?”

Ichigo grimaced, looking around at shady-looking shelves. “Yeah, no.” Curious, he looked back at Urahara. “… Do you even have anything that has not passed its expiration date yet, anyway?”

Urahara’s laughter was like a balm and a curse at the same time, cheerfully sending Ichigo’s heart into flutters, and painfully punching the breath out of his lungs, flowers clotting his throat.

“Why, Kurosaki-san, of course!” he replied hiding behind the fan. Ichigo really wanted a fan for himself, right now. It would be _damn useful_. “Maybe. But, anyway, I do doubt you have come for candies.”

And there he was, Urahara-taichou, the genius Shinigami. Ichigo both hated and longed for these moments.

“No,” Ichigo admitted with a sigh. “Actually, I came because I’m worried.”

“Worried?” Parroted Urahara.

“About Karin. I’ve seen her coming here a couple times, now.” Ichigo elaborated.

For a moment, Urahara didn’t say anything. Then, he sighed, covering his face with the fan once again.

“Perhaps we should take this inside,” Urahara replied, gesturing to the residence door.

Stepping foot into Urahara’s home again after so long is charring. Seeing those familiar walls, the tea set by the stove, the table where Ichigo and Urahara had sat to unwind after sparring — it all brought more and more flowers to his throat, an increasing burn that felt more and more difficult to ignore.

When Urahara waved him to what Ichigo had once come to think of as _his_ seat, he had no choice but to let out a short cough, if only to scratch at the itch, if not strong enough to expel any petals yet.

Ichigo was deeply regretting his choice to come here.

“Karin,” Ichigo reminded. He wanted nothing more than to lay down, splayed over Urahara’s legs, and just _sleep_. He wanted nothing more than to get up and _run_ — from this place, from this man, from these feelings.

Urahara’s smile was grim as he nodded.

When he was done explained, his words hung heavy on Ichigo’s shoulders.

“I…” Karin and Yuzu, suddenly the major source of _reiatsu_ around that could not defend themselves, attracting Hollow after Hollow. And it was all Ichigo’s fault. “ _Thank you_.” He whispered.

He could smell nothing but sweet sickness, the sakura blossoms that grew inside and never left him alone, but it was _nothing_ next to the sudden image that appeared in Ichigo’s mind: Yuzu and Karin’s face, pale and bloody, their eyes empty of life.

Like their mother before them.

Like Ichigo would be, soon enough.

“ _Thank you_ ,” he repeated. And this time, his voice wavered and broke, and his throat felt too full, but he was so overwhelmed he couldn’t even differentiate between tears and petals anymore.

“It was the least I could do, Kurosaki-san…” Urahara answered, and Ichigo could hear there were more words spoken, but.

But all Ichigo could hear was that Urahara had saved his sisters.

Urahara had _saved his sisters_.

He gulped a new wave of flowers.

**.**

Deciding is relatively easy. Gathering enough courage to _say_ the words, however, is a nightmare.

Speaking his mind to the fantasy of his mother, alone by the river, was much easier than this. Yet, Ichigo had promised himself he would give them an explanation. That they _deserved_ to know what was coming. Soon enough, Ichigo would not be able to hide anymore, even with his unnatural anatomy, and he preferred to have his sisters on the known than have them breaking down around him, blaming themselves for things they had no guilt of.

Yet. _Yet_.

He sighed, rubbing at his throat subconsciously; the itch was unbearable, at this point. At all times, he felt like there was lead filling his lungs; he could never get enough oxygen, could never relax, could never _be_ , without fear of coughing his own weigh in flowers and blood. It felt… daunting.

(It felt like a slow coming relief that he never wanted, yet he’d get anyway.)

“Onii-chan?” asked Yuzu worried when he kept silent, thumb pressed harder than he intended to against his pulse. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, of course,” he answered reflexively, but then he looked at his family — his sisters, gnawing at their lips, eyes worried and _loving_ ; his father, idiotic and useless, but family anyway, warmth and cheerfulness when he needed it. “No.” He admitted.

“Do you need something?” Yuzu asked promptly, eyes staring at him with laser accuracy. “You _do_ look pale. Are you cold? Do you need a blanket? Some tea, maybe?”

Ichigo laughed. It was sudden, surprising; he hadn’t laughed and _meant it_ in so long, yet, here he was. Trying to tell his family the truth, finally at peace with his fate, and _laughing_.

He loved his sisters so much.

“I… I’m okay. Just. Just hear me out, okay?”

They nodded, all looking very serious and worried, even his father, and he felt so _at home_. It was strange, realizing he hadn’t felt at home in his own house in so long, yet it was also true; during a couple months, he’d had more to worry about, with all the Shinigami-business, and then, there was the whole _apathy_ of losing half his soul, and then. And then he was dying. Home didn’t feel like a priority, at that point.

Yet, feeling warm and comfortable and relaxed for once in a long time, Ichigo realized how much he’d missed it.

“I…” But the pressure was growing stronger — at both his chest and his throat, and he decided showing was easier than telling.

The cough was easy to come; after 17 months, he’d grown used to coughing just the right way to clear his airways the first attempt. He barely had long fits before expelling flowers, anymore.

(It didn’t stop him from having long fits of _expelling_ flowers, however. Sometimes, he’d sit and cough and heave for half an hour non-stop, flowers and petals raining down the toilet. It just meant he did not have to cough _and keep feeling stuffed_.)

It was unmistakable. The sakura blossoms sat on his hands silently, impartial judges staring at them with flecks of blood and saliva stuck to their petals while his family tried to understand what was happening. Tried to understand Ichigo was _dying_.

He hated to put them through it. He hated the idea of dying suddenly of an “unknown” illness even more.

“You…” Karin whispered, eyes wide and glued to Ichigo’s flowers. “Is…”

He nodded, silent, and cleared his throat — the burn at the back of his throat was a constant, an itch he couldn’t scratch —, getting their attention once again. “So. I have _hanahaki_.”

At first, it was all too silent, everything frozen in its place.

Then, Isshin lunged forwards, face creased in pain and determination, teeth bared and fists shaking in his lap, and Yuzu reclined against Karin, crying her eyes out silently.

“We are going to fix this, Ichigo,” promised his father, voice tight and broken. “You should have come to us sooner, but we are going to _fix this_.”

Ichigo smiled humorlessly back at him. “There’s nothing for you to fix, Dad,” he explained quietly. “It’s… too advanced for surgery. And even if it weren’t, I _chose_ not to deal with it. Some things… some things are worth it.”

Saving your family. Saving the world. Loving someone.

Some things are worth your life.

“Ichigo…”

Ichigo didn’t like hearing the pain in his father’s voice, but, more than that, he hated seeing his sisters crying.

“Please,” he murmured, crushing his flowers thoughtlessly between his fists. “I chose this myself. It’s my right. I know… I know what it means. I know that you’ll… _but_ , I chose this.”

“Just like you chose to fight a war?” Karin asked bitterly, voice tight.

Ichigo smiled at her

(Bodies strewn around, blood pooling under familiar forms. Dying, and not being dead. Attacking his own friend, lost to his own rage. Thinking he’d lost his best friends, all over again. Thinking he’d failed. Thinking they’d all die. Waking up, sweating and crying and heaving flowers onto himself, afraid of something that wasn’t there)

“Just like that.”

**.**

“I’m so sorry. _We’re_ sorry. We should… we should have come to you before,” Inoue whispered, eyes wet and begging even as Chad stood by her side, silent and unshaken. “We should never have left you, to begin with. We just… didn’t know how to talk to you anymore.”

“I mean,” Ishida interjected, pushing his glasses up. “It’s not like we were ever _friends_. We were just allies. It made sense.”

Ichigo frowned softly, but nodded. “Of course. It’s okay, Inoue.”

_It’s okay,_ he thought. _I understand_.

He understood — they wanted someone who wasn’t there anymore, after all.

“I’m sorry,” Chad rumbled in a way Ichigo would once have thought to be comforting.

“Don’t worry about it,” he shrugged it off. “We’re fine. You’re here now, aren’t you?”

_Now._ They were here _now_.

“Yeah. Yeah, we are,” Inoue agreed, smiling through her tears.

But they hadn’t been here _before_.

Still, he just grunted, offering them a half-smile, and fell back into silence, breath coming too slow, too short, never enough — and pretended everything was fine.

But, what was _fine_?

Because he was fine with forgiving Inoue and Ishida and Chad now. But he’d never _forget_. He’d never forget they hadn’t been here, when he needed them _the most_.

He’d never forget how he struggled through those murky, heavy months of emptiness _alone_. He’d never forget how, when he started fearing for his own life, there was no one to fear for him.

He’d never forget how his _friends_ had stood aside and let him go, abandoned him when he proved not to be what they wanted anymore.

… Urahara was a manipulator and a liar, but he’d _never_ lied to Ichigo about what he wanted from him, at the very least. He cheated, and created the very things Ichigo needed to overcome, but he always, _always_ , told him so; he always told him it was an obstacle. He always told him he’d risk death. He always told him upfront what he expected, and what he’d accept.

And, not once, did he abandon Ichigo for being _less_. Not even when Ichigo almost died in front of him.

Not even when Ichigo lost everything, and was alone, and could not protect anyone.

No — just his _friends_ did so.

“Everything is fine,” he repeated silently.

He was dying, there was a garden growing in his chest, he was missing half his soul, his family was always crying, and he was _fine_.

And if he wasn’t, well, there was no one to care about it anymore.

**.**

The first time Ichigo had trouble expelling a petal, he knew his time was running short.

Luckily, he was alone at the moment, so he could trudge to the bathroom without fear of being seen, coughing into his hands and trying to breathe around the pressure on his throat.

He tried to speak, question the feeling for the sake of _speaking_ , but all he managed to choke out was an unintelligible painful croak. It… It felt awful. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t speak. The pain and burn left him sluggish, limbs too heavy, and the ache in his heart felt like dying.

It felt like drowning.

Then, he stumbled against the sink, cold edge digging painfully against his ribs and sending him off into a painful fit of dry heaving that, at last, dislodged the obstacle in his throat.

A pink, perfectly formed bud fell onto the sink with a soft sound.

Ichigo felt something bubbling in his chest, and he was so used to the feeling of petals tumbling out that he took an embarrassing amount of time to realize it was a _laugh_. A hysterical laugh, but a laugh either way.

His time _was_ running short.

Carefully, he took the small bud in hands, admiring its softness.

“To think you have been growing inside of me,” he murmured with a smile.

Strangely, the pressure was gone, but he still felt like drowning.

“They’d tell me to take the surgery,” he mused, caressing the closed petals with a fingertip. “They’d tell me that, if I’m this far along, I should give him up. That this is killing me.”

He sighed, sending the bud of sakura fluttering back into the sink. In his mind, his options flashed like a warning sign; on one hand, he could be healed and forget all about this feeling that kept him moving when he had nothing. On the other, he could just… _Not._

Loving, Ichigo decided, was a lot like dying. Perhaps it was because his only experience was this one, with the _hanahaki_ , but then, Ichigo had also been on the edge of life twice before. If he said it felt the same — it _felt the damn same_.

And neither experience turned him away from the risks before. Why would this one?

**.**

Going back to watching Karin’s soccer practices after so long felt… surreal. Seeing her run around so _happy_ , so _relaxed_ , made his heart throb with the sort of guilty pain that he’d grown familiar with since he first got his Shinigami powers.

His sister was so… _grown_.

“Kurosaki-san.”

Ichigo jolted, heart racing and nerves haywire as he looked around to catch Urahara approaching with a careful smile.

“ _Getaboshi_ ,” he nodded, his mouth too dry and his throat too tight suddenly. “This is unexpected.”

It was. Ichigo had come to three of Karin’s practices by now, and Urahara hadn’t been in any of them. In fact, Ichigo’s last interaction with the man had been…

Ah.

“Jinta-kun wanted to come. Kurosaki-chan promised him he could participate in the games, were he to wish so. Thus, I was left to babysit.” Urahara explained, leaning easily by Ichigo’s side, for once without his fan, but his cane-sword loyally by his side.

“… And to keep an eye out for Hollows,” Ichigo summarized, clenching his hands by his side.

To his credit, Urahara did not pretend. “Yes.”

It felt like betrayal. His sisters could be in danger at any moment, and Ichigo wouldn’t even _notice_ it. Instead, here he was, playing at a normal life while he slowly withered from within.

(And the reason for that was right _here_ , beside him, sharp eyes and gentle smiles, and it would be so easy to cough a bud and just _let it all go_.)

“But also because I wanted to.”

Ichigo raised his head too quickly, staring at those too-knowing eyes, and felt flowers clinging to his lungs, climbing his throat — the burn familiar but overwhelming —, and he feared Urahara would be able to smell them.

(If anyone could, it was him, Ichigo thought fondly, even as he scrambled for something else to think of, for some resemblance of _peace_ )

It was too much. It was all too much. Karin, so independent. Jinta, part of the girls’ lives. Him, powerless and _useless_. Urahara, here, a guardian, a protector, a _friend_.

So, instead, he ran.

When he was alone, he spewed flowers like secrets, tears like confessions. _“I wanted to”_ kept echoing in his mind; Karin’s smile and Yuzu’s fond mother-henning two weighs on his heart.

(He, human again, empty and blind, _a chain_ )

Ichigo had told himself he kept the flowers because this love kept him going.

Here, staring at buds that were starting to blossom, Ichigo wondered if it wasn’t just a lie he didn’t want to confess to himself.

**.**

He woke up three days after revealing the truth to his family choking on too many flowers, buds, blossoms and petals tumbling out together even as his chest and lungs _burnt_ , working overtime to keep him alive. In his mind, he could hear the choking fear in Inoue’s voice, the cries as Aizen struck, Ulquiorra’s dying breaths.

He woke up shivering and drowning, and decided this was a _bad day_.

He struggled upright, muscles lead-heavy and bones liquefied, and realized he was wrong; this was a _terrible_ day. This was one of those days where breathing hurt, where walking was hard, where happiness felt stolen, where…

He stumbled into the bathroom, doubling over the toilet just in time. He fell to his knees with the force of his coughs, hands scampering to find purchase on the cold porcelain, as his chest burned and he heaved, not much but bile and flower petals falling down even as he heaved and heaved and _heaved_ , blood too dark in his mind eye.

_“I chose this,”_ he’d told his family, trying to tell them he’d chosen to _live_ with this, but Karin had seen right through it to the truth he’d only revealed to the ghost of their mother: he’d chosen to _die_ from it, just as he’d first chosen to die in the War.

And somehow, he’d survived the War, and was _still living_ , despite the odds.

“Onii-chan?” called Yuzu softly from the door, and Ichigo realized he hadn’t closed the door before vomiting his woes out. Shit.

“Sorry, Yuzu,” he croaked, throat tight with emotions and a new flood of flowers. “I’ll… I’ll be right out.”

She shook her head, eyes wet, and offered him a shaky smile. “No, just… take your time. I’ll put some tea on.”

He offered her a tight smile that fell apart as soon as she was gone.

Fuck. He’d never meant to make them feel _worse_.

He went for a sigh, but derailed into a new fit of coughs, frustration bubbling side-by-side with the flowers.

Why couldn’t it all just _end_?

(Wasn’t him deserving of some _peace_?)

Later, sitting with Yuzu, just drinking tea and watching some crap television, Ichigo remembered: because he was Kurosaki Ichigo. The odd one out. The elder brother. The protector.

The one that fought through it all.

**.**

Seeing Rukia and Renji again was bittersweet, he decided hours later, when they were alone at last. On one hand, they were his friends. On the other, _were they?_

“I’m sorry,” murmured Rukia, knocking Ichigo aside as she sat down.

When Inoue told him the same, Ichigo had said it was okay. He’d lied.

“I am, too.”

And he was — not for the radio silence, he’d never learned to feel guilty of something he hadn’t done, but he _was_ sorry. Sorry about their dwindling relationship, if nothing else.

“We… we’d heard. That you’re… coughing flowers?” Renji tried to speak, after a couple minutes of silence where they just sat there, watching the river and putting their thoughts in order.

“Yeah. And I heard you guys don’t _have_ that. I was shocked, to be honest. I thought _hanahaki_ had more chances to have _come_ from Shinigamis, since it’s so… unexplainable, still.”

He had — heard, thought, been shocked. The explanation following the return of his powers had been… _dubious_ , though.

“No,” Rukia shook her head. “We are deceased already. There are not many diseases that are deadly to us, when we don’t have much to lose. Those that do affect us are the ones that target our spirits, instead. Like Ukitake-taichou’s illness. Or the sickness that took Hisana-nee away. It’s you humans who are so… _weird_ about it.”

“Huh,” he muttered, staring at his shaky hands.

He felt stronger than he’d had in months — 18 months, to be precise —, but it was still… too early. He felt complete, inside, but he also felt his flowers _so much more_ , now. He felt more grounded in his body, which also meant he could _feel_ each of his roots, digging into his ribs; he could feel the flowers scratching at his lungs, a constant itch that had no salvage. He felt… He felt alive, and it just meant he was _dying_.

When he next spoke, he knew that all his fear, all his pain, and all his despair leaked through his voice.

“I was ready to die,” he admitted.

“I know,” Rukia whispered back, touch soft on his arm. “But we aren’t.”

“No one is,” Renji agreed. “It’s why your father asked Urahara-san to fix you.”

Ichigo’s breath hitched, for once not related to the flowers — though those followed soon enough, a light cough sending them tumbling down his lap.

“What…?” he asked — and there was _hope_ burning in him. _Hope_. Disgraceful, disgusting _hope_.

He hated feeling hopeful.

“Yeah,” Rukia agreed, knocking him with a small grin, taking one of his flowers in her own hands. “I mean, Urahara-san had been working on returning your powers to you since you first lost them, but, apparently, when you used your Final Getsuga, your _reiatsu_ was spread all over the worlds. Shinji-taichou complained _so much_ of being sent to the strangest of places to collect them for Urahara-san. It was bizarre. And… humbling.”

Renji hummed in agreement. “Even Kurotsuchi-taichou was involved in the task of forming the vessel for your powers again. The disturbance was _huge_. And taking into consideration that the Soutaichou was trying to put order in Soul Society once again, after the whole disaster with Aizen and the others, it was awful. And kinda funny.”

… There had been… _so much_ going on that Ichigo didn’t know about.

And during all that, Ichigo had been struggling with stupid _feelings_.

“Thank you,” he murmured, breathing out as deeply as he could with half of his lungs covered in trees.

“Yeah.” Rukia agreed.

They sat there in silence, watching the river flow by. From time to time, Ichigo would cough some more flowers, feeling the pressure in his chest grow tight. It felt…

It felt somewhat like home. It felt like peace.

It felt like hurt.

He wanted to be okay — with Ruki and Renji; with Shinji and the Vizards who clearly had worked to put him back together; with his father, who apparently had _known_ and hid it anyway; with Urahara, whom he loved and was killing him in the process. He _wanted to be okay_.

“Are we okay?” Renji whispered, as if hearing his thoughts.

But he wasn’t.

“No.” He answered honestly. Then, he swallowed convulsively, flowers covering their laps, and power brimming under his skin, and added: “But we can be.”

Someday.

**.**

“I thought this would have solved it,” Isshin commented from where he was perched by Ichigo’s desk, staring at him.

Ichigo smiled wryly back at him, a humorless twist to his lips that barely could be called a smile as he swiped his hand across his mouth, cleaning the specks of blood and the lost petals left behind.

“Yeah, I’ve gathered that much,” Ichigo commented back, leaning back into the headboard of his bed. “You shouldn’t have.”

His father sighed, for once sounding his age instead of the one he pretended to be. “I’m sorry, Ichigo. But I just… I can’t watch you die and do _nothing_. I can’t let _the girls_ watch you die, slowly, without doing _anything_!”

Ichigo wanted to be angry, but, honestly, he was too tired to gather that much energy. And, anyway, it wasn’t like he couldn’t understand — the thought of letting his sisters suffer… There was a reason why he kept it a secret for so long, after all.

“Well,” he murmured, gathering his flowers on a corner of the bed to dispose of later. “All it did was offer them fake hopes, though.”

Offer _him_ fake hopes, even. When Rukia and Renji explained… Ichigo had actually thought he could _live_. For the first time in 18 months, he’d looked inside himself and thought, _“I want to live.”_

Yet, he was still dying. Slowly but surely, a flower at a time, inch by growing inch of root. His lungs were still withering under the pressure of maintaining a garden, a _tree_ , all of his own, even with the addition of _reiatsu_ to keep it at a bay.

It was bizarre, wanting something just when you knew it was out of reach, already.

It was so _human_.

“You could always ask your friend. Inoue. She’s an _impossible_ healer, isn’t she? She should be able to do something about this.” His father pointed out, eyes dark and sad. “You could free yourself, even if surgery is already out of question.”

Ichigo smiled humorlessly once again. “And, what? She’d have to _reject it_. It’d be just like a surgery. I’d just lose it, anyway. I’d survive, but…”

“But your love wouldn’t.”

Ichigo nodded, looking down with a frown.

“You should do it, anyway,” Isshin murmured. “For your sisters.”

Ichigo snapped his eyes up to him.

“Don’t you _dare_ tell me what to do for my sisters,” Ichigo hissed, clenching his hands around his covers so he wouldn’t punch his father. “I’ve been taking care of them since I was _eight_. You… you don’t have the _right_.”

Isshin smiled, slow and painful, and Ichigo realized what he was going to say just before he said it.

“I know.”

**.**

His powers were something he’d never dared hope for. His father had said it was _final_ ; the Final Getsuga Tensho. The Final Sacrifice. He’d been _lucky_ it wouldn’t cost him his life — at least, that’s what he saw in his eyes.

Ichigo had disagreed, silently, especially after he woke up blind for the first time since he was a child. For so long he’d relied on being able to live with ghosts that, when he was denied it he’d felt slighted.

The fact he felt _hollow_ also did not help matters.

So, no, he’d never dared hope for his powers, because he was aware of his luck. He was aware of what it meant to _sacrifice_ something.

(He was aware of his mother’s body, cold and empty when he was just eight. He was aware of Karin, motionless in the hands of a Hollow. He was aware of his own life, disappearing before his eyes. He was aware of his friends, in danger because of him. He was aware of the _War_ , where blood was shed at every corner, where so many were broken, yet no one he cared for had died, incredibly. He was aware of the hole in his chest, unseen yet ever-present.)

Yet — here he was. Overfilled in a way he’d only felt once before, sword piercing his stomach once again.

“How…” he whispered brokenly, staring at the white blade protruding from his body.

“Welcome back, Ichigo,” murmured a familiar voice.

He turned around, fire burning under his skin, too much oxygen in overfilled lungs, fear and _want_ growing like a cancer in corners of a hopeless heart — and saw Rukia, smirking, and Renji, with his arms crossed.

He could _see_.

He was _back_.

… And he was still dying, anyway.

He turned around, laughing until he cried, flowers and blood flowing down his face.

Someone had a very sick humor, out there.

**.**

When Ichigo asked to talk to her, Inoue had smiled hopefully.

When he asked, “ _Can_ you heal _hanahaki_?”, though, her face crumpled.

“I… I can,” she answered, looking down at the school grounds from where they were leaning in the roof. “But… it works like surgery.”

Ichigo nodded. “I’d thought so.”

He hadn’t meant to talk to her, really, but his father’s words… the way his father’s face had crumpled when he mentioned Ichigo’s sisters…

Ichigo thought the least he could do was _ask_ her about it.

“So, it’s true?” Inoue asked, voice tiny. “You’re…”

He smiled wryly at her. It would be easy to force out a flower, if he wanted to — but he didn’t want to, because it felt _intimate_. It felt like something he should hide for the ones he trusted, after so long keeping his disease hidden.

(The fact that he _didn’t_ trust her anymore hurt, he realized. He’d once travelled to an unknown world to save her, he’d once _almost died_ for her. Now… now he didn’t even trust her to see his scars. It felt like cold water filling his lungs, and it was awful.)

“Do… do you want me to fix it, Kurosaki-kun?” she asked, clenching her fingers around the fence that protected them from the fall of the roof.

Ichigo looked down quietly; their school was tall enough that anyone that fell from here would likely die, he realized.

He wondered how _that_ would feel. Dying from a fall.

Probably quicker than choking from flowers growing inside.

“Some things are worth it,” he answered, instead.

There was some shuffle, then Ichigo felt Inoue’s hand on his shoulder, and she was smiling sadly at him.

“I know,” she murmured, sad. “I never intended to give up on mine, either. But… sometimes, some choices are beyond our grasp. And, sometimes, that’s for the best.”

Ichigo smiled at her, throat catching with a rebel flower.

“Yeah.” He agreed. “But this is not one of those times.”

**.**

_“Urahara-san has been working to get your powers back since you first lost then,”_ echoed in his mind, shapeless. For the past days, it was all Ichigo can think about. It was all Ichigo tried _not_ to think about, failing miserably.

He didn’t need hope. Hope only meant he’d have _more_ to lose, when things went tumbling down — yet, he kept hearing, _“Urahara-san has been working”_ … for him. He’d been working to help _Ichigo_. For months. For _more than a year_.

Ichigo has been struggling with loneliness, and feelings, and emptiness, and while his father did not wish to give him any hope, Urahara had… Urahara had _kept trying_. Even when his father had decided it was final, Urahara had decided it was not to be.

Were Ichigo not already in love with him, he’s pretty sure he’d just have fallen for Urahara Kisuke, after that.

But, he also knew Urahara; he’d spent a good amount of time with the man in the pre-war, in between Ichigo’s training with the Vizards and Aizen attacking once again. He knew how Urahara worked — and if there was one thing that man had, it was a guilt-complex the size of the entire Soul Society.

(Ichigo remembered Urahara on his knees, eyes serious for once as he asked forgiveness for something he’d done _a century_ before, for something he’d done to someone who wasn’t even Ichigo himself. He remembered Urahara, sincere and calm, telling him it was okay for Ichigo to hate him. Ichigo remembered Urahara, and realized that was probably the first time he’d felt _something_ for the man.)

Urahara had worked his ass off for Ichigo, it was true — but, knowing the scientist, it was likely because he felt _guilty_. Guilty that Ichigo lost his friends, maybe. Or guilty that Ichigo had lost half his soul. Or guilty that Ichigo had even been involved in the war, most likely.

Ichigo would love to thank Urahara for it — but he also knew Urahara just _wouldn’t take it_. To Urahara, making amends was as natural as making schemes; he started wars, and he fixed things.

Simple like that.

Ichigo just wished it hurt a little less.

**.**

Thinking about it objectively, the first few days after using Mugestsu were the worst. Every day, Ichigo would greet people who were not there, just to realize later that they were all dead — and he couldn’t see them anymore.

The first few days at school, then, had been hell; all his friends were just _right there_ — yet, whenever he had gone near them to talk, they would shut up, guilty looks on their face, and he had quickly realized that he wasn’t one of them, not anymore.

Then, weeks went by, and hopes started wilting — Rukia wasn’t coming back. Renji wasn’t going to visit. His powers weren’t going to just reappear (and he told himself he did _not_ expect that, anyway). He wouldn’t see ghosts anymore. He wouldn’t…

He wouldn’t be anything more than a human, anymore. A normal, bland human.

It had hurt more than he wanted to admit, thinking like that, and he had felt incredibly ashamed just as quickly. There was nothing _wrong_ with being human…

It just wasn’t _Ichigo_.

Perhaps… perhaps that explained the _hanahaki_. After all, there _was_ one theory that said that the _hanahaki_ disease only ever affected those people who both had an unrequited love and simply… did not wish to keep on living like that.

Maybe… Ichigo had brought it upon himself, rejecting his latest situation. Perhaps Ichigo had just had bad luck.

Guess it was one of those things he’d never know.

**.**

He coughed a couple petals while he tried to puzzle it out. He knew the symptoms. He knew the signs.

He just didn’t know… _who_.

Clearly, it wasn’t Inoue. He could be obtuse, but he wasn’t _blind_. He was feeling empty, not stupid. He knew that Inoue had a crush on him. If he liked her, not even _he_ would be able to think it was one-sided.

It didn’t feel like _Rukia_ , either. She wasn’t… he didn’t believe she was in love with him, but. He also didn’t believe it to be _impossible_. He didn’t believe that, were his love for Rukia, he’d be so certain of his own death that his flowers would be _sakuras_.

Still… who remained?

He huffed, tossing his petals down as he lay back down on his bed. He wasn’t blind, but he still didn’t pride himself on his emotional knowledge.

Still. There should be someone…

_Grey eyes, wicked wit, annoying laughter…_

Ichigo shook his head, annoyed at his wandering thoughts. He’d been trying to think about whom he could be in love with, not

… Not Urahara Kisuke.

Oh shit.

**.**

“Kurosaki-san,” greeted him before he could even sigh, voice familiar and decidedly _unwanted_ right now.

“Getaboshi.” He sighed back, turning around to watch Urahara sitting on his bed.

(Urahara Kisuke sitting on his bed. Shit.)

“Isshin-san said you refused surgery and Inoue-san’s help.” Urahara continued, eyes serious and focused on Ichigo’s face.

Shit. So, no escaping this.

Ichigo sighed, sitting on his desk chair so he would have _some_ distance from Urahara, at least, even as his heart throbbed and his lungs filled with flowers that wanted out.

“I did,” he agreed warily.

“Why?”

Ichigo smiled bitterly; this was a recurring question, was it not? “Because some idiots are worth the pain.”

Urahara scoffed back, and the sound was so _alien_ coming from him that Ichigo blinked twice before coughing a perfectly formed flower onto his lap.

“No one is worth _that_ much pain, Kurosaki-san.” Urahara corrected, voice tight. “No one is worth your life.”

It was just so. _Ironic_. Ichigo laughed, and it wasn’t even all that bitter or humorless. He was so _besotted_ with Urahara that even this stupidness was charming.

“ _Some_ of them are,” Ichigo answered simply. “I was ready to die in the War. Dying for love… It’s much better, actually.”

It’s not. In the War, it would have been quick. Even if it were to be painful, at least it would _end quickly_. This… this is over a year of suffering, of longing and not getting anything in return. This is over a year of broken hearts and drowning in flowers that grew within.

This was over a year of festering on a love that only did him harm.

“You shouldn’t have _had_ to be ready to die in a War that wasn’t yours, to begin with,” Urahara whispered, and _there_ was Urahara’s famous guilt-complex. “And you certainly shouldn’t be ready to die for someone who doesn’t love you back.”

Rolling his eyes, Ichigo answered tightly, “I never asked _you_ , did I?”

“Kurosaki-san…”

Ichigo clenched his jaw shut, keeping words and flowers inside — he wanted to _scream_ , to accuse Urahara of being a meddling fool who should just _let him go_ , he wanted to… he wanted to beg Urahara for an answer he already knew the words for.

He wanted to spew his heart over Urahara, and hope that he’d be accepted.

“Kurosaki-san, you are being _stupid_ right now. You finally have your chance to live. You are finally free. You are finally… whole, again. If you only just… give up on this, that kills you, you will be _so much better_.” Urahara whispered, earnest. “If you just accept Inoue-san’s help, you will finally be free to live the life you deserve.”

It was too painful. Having Urahara giving him everything he felt Ichigo _deserved_ was too…

Painful.

“Well. Have you not heard the memo, Urahara-san?” He asked at last, voice broken and trembling softly. He took a rattling breath, small petals falling from his mouth as he continued. “I am a teenager. When I love, I love with my life. I don’t… I don’t _want_ to live without you.”

Urahara’s face would forever be burnt into Ichigo’s mind, he supposed — for a given value of forever, that is. At that moment, Urahara just looked so…

_Young_. Centuries old, and Urahara could look like a child when faced with a confession. It was stupidly charming.

Except, Ichigo thought he might have broken Urahara Kisuke, and despite that _being_ an item on his bucket list, he’d prefer to part on… amiable terms with everyone, if not exactly _happy_ ones.

“I… I apologize, Urahara-san.”

Not that he _regretted_ it. Now that he’d said it, Ichigo realized it was true. He _did_ love with his whole life. He loved Urahara so much he was ready to exchange his own life just to keep _feeling_ this way.

But, he _did_ regret making Urahara feel guilty for it.

“Kurosaki-san… were you informed that the reason why your powers were returned in such a hurry was because Shinigamis simply do not _suffer_ from _hanahaki_?” Urahara questioned, voice carefully blank.

Ichigo blinked — “Yes. Dad mentioned he thought it would be enough to… _heal_ me, without erasing my emotions. Why? Are you… Are you saying that perhaps it _would_ be best if I lost my physical body, after all?”

After a surprising eye roll, Urahara offered him a tight smile.

“I am _saying_ ,” he answered, getting up and walking closer. “That you are not _allowed_ to give up.”

And kissed him.

… Urahara Kisuke was kissing him.

Ichigo’s breath hitched, both in surprise and with the sudden rise of _so many_ flowers he had to pull away in a hurry, only remaining upright because of the hands on his shoulders as he coughed and heaved, flowers falling in cascade around their legs.

Urahara Kisuke kissed him.

Urahara Kisuke told him, clearly, he should not give up.

“I didn’t think you even _knew_ how to give up, Kurosaki-san,” murmured Urahara, lips brushing softly against Ichigo’s temples as Ichigo tried to breathe in. “But I am telling you now: _do not_.”

Urahara Kisuke…

Loved him.

Ichigo wasn’t sure what to think of that — but, apparently, he at least would have _time_ to do so.

**.**

Getting his powers back had meant that he was suddenly much more grounded in his body. It had meant living each of his pains, feeling the death creeping closer, the roots and flowers taking over his body, the sadness and madness burning within. It had been an awakening; it had been living after being in stasis for so long.

It had been terrifying.

Urahara's feelings... It had been a balm, but also a jolt of electricity through his nerves. Suddenly, he wasn't dying anymore. After making his peace with his own mortality, Ichigo just... Discovered there was no need for it.

It had been shocking, overwhelming, disturbing. On one hand, he was happy — for living, for being able to be with his family some more... but especially for Urahara Kisuke, chapped lips over his, grey eyes seeing him.

On the other hand, he was suddenly capable of breathing, but he realized he was still feeling as if underwater, thoughts clogged and movements too slow. Ichigo was alive, but he still wasn't sure he deserved it. Ichigo was alive, he had his family and friends and Kisuke, and he still...

(Loving is like dying. Living is like drowning.)

Perhaps... Perhaps Ichigo wasn't fine.

Hating... Everything, losing everything and nothing at the same time...

Perhaps Ichigo had the right to be angry at his friends (months of silence, of ignored attempts at communication, of...), but perhaps he hadn't. Perhaps Ichigo had the right to be angry at his father (years lying to him and his sisters, just to appear before him during the War to tell him Ichigo must die). Perhaps Ichigo had the right to be angry at the Vizards (he'd thought they were _family_ ). Perhaps he had the right to be angry at Kisuke (whom he loved so much it had been killing him).

Perhaps he had. Perhaps he hadn't.

But... Ichigo didn't think he wanted to continue like this. Angry, tired, empty. Ichigo wanted to live, at last.

( _Rebirth._ He stared at the first flower he ever coughed, forever preserved by his ever burning love. _New life._ )

Like Kisuke offered him.

And, to that, he realized

"I need help."

**.**

Kisuke stopped by his side, silent and comforting, a hand on his wrist and eyes that looked only at him.

"Are you okay?" he asked quietly, without pushing.

And Ichigo... Ichigo was tired of lying.

"No." He admitted, looking at hands that, sometimes, were still covered in blood and flowers. At hands that he'd seen kill and tremble and grow cold. At hands that were his, despite everything.

And then he looked back at Kisuke and saw affection and acceptance, and swallowed dryly around flowers that weren't there anymore but kept trying to climb up his throat anyway.

"But I think I will be."

**Author's Note:**

>  **CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER**  
>  1\. The first petal  
> 3\. Ichigo realizes he has Hanahaki  
> 26\. Ichigo thinks about who he loves  
> 5\. Meaning of the sakura  
> 9\. A study into Hanahaki  
> 6\. Ichigo has a fit in class  
> 11\. A study into Ichigo's vague PTSD  
> 7\. Karin visits the Shoten  
> 10\. Ichigo questions Karin on her behavior  
> 14\. Ichigo visits the Shoten  
> 17\. The first bud  
> 18\. The first blossoming bud  
> 2\. Ichigo thinks about his mortality  
> 13\. The twins realize Ichigo has been acting oddly  
> 4\. 18 months, Ichigo hasn't had any contact with any Shinigami yet  
> 8\. 18 months, Ichigo decides to talk to his family  
> 12\. Ichigo talks to his mother  
> 15\. Ichigo talks to his family  
> 19\. 3 days after, a bad day  
> 25\. Hanahaki theory  
> 16\. Inoue, Chad, Ishida & Ichigo talk  
> 22\. Ichigo's powers are back  
> 20\. Rukia, Renji & Ichigo talk  
> 24\. Kisuke's guilt-complex  
> 21\. Isshin & Ichigo talk  
> 23\. Ichigo & Inoue talk  
> 27\. Confessions  
> 28\. Ichigo admitting to problems  
> 29\. "Are you ok?"
> 
> Soooo... hope you're feeling okay after this story! (and not like my friend who I asked to read it for me before I'd post it, who told me: "I wanna punch you. But I think the story was cute" -- incidentally, it's the same friend I wanted to spite writing a bad ending)
> 
> A couple headcanons about this story I thought about, but never found a way of inserting it into the story itself...  
> 1\. It isn't, actually, death that makes Shinigamis immune to Hanahaki, but reiatsu. The stronger the spiritual presence on someone, the more difficult it is for them to develop diseases, in general. (Ukitake's disease is abnormal like that) Most people aren't aware of it, though, and simply think it's because they are spirit, because, really, who cares about normal spirits from the Rukongai?  
> 2\. Inoue's flower (and, yes, if it wasn't obvious, she had hanahaki for Ichigo. And lost it accidentally when her powers developed too much) was the yellow tulip, which means unrequited love; "it's the flower you send to the person you love, but you know the person won't love you back" -- and yellow also, generally, means happiness, innocence, cheerfulness, and such.  
> 3\. Ichigo never actually started working, because of the disease. He has coughing medicine for when he's feeling worse than normal, but it doesn't help much, so he decided it would be best to just avoid places where he could be seen coughing flowers, and that was that.  
> 4\. Yes, actually, there are 2 different diseases that are, just because both involve flowers, called hanahaki. The first one is pretty common, and never fatal; someone going through puberty may develop it even if they don't have a crush, actually, but it was decided it was a crush!Hanahaki, and that was that. In this form, the person never coughs whole flowers, and there are no roots inside their lungs. The other one, though, is the one we know; with roots and whole gardens, blossoming their way into death.  
> 5\. I never specified what happens when one takes the surgery because I simply _don't know_ , until know. Do they lose the capacity of loving romantically at all? Do they just lose every feeling related to the person they have hanahaki for? I don't know. It's something awfully scary, though, and many people choose not to take it, because of that.  
> 6\. And, if it wasn't obvious: Ichigo admitted he wasn't okay and needed help, and _said so_ to Kisuke, because he actually wants help, and he trusts Kisuke to help him.
> 
> I don't know if I should put these warnings here or not, but, hey, better safe than sorry: if you are struggling with depression or PTSD or something of the sort, or know someone who is, please, do not be afraid of searching help. It's never good to let it fester too long.
> 
> (I think that's all, now?)  
> Thanks for all who've read! If it isn't asking much, you'd make me _my day_ by letting a comment on your way out.


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